


The Clintasha Fallout4 AU Literally Nobody Asked For

by agentsofpuppies



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-08 01:38:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11636253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentsofpuppies/pseuds/agentsofpuppies
Summary: “She's a raider,” Garvey replied. The words carried the weight of finality and judgement, and Clint hated what the world had become.“Scavenger, maybe,” he muttered defiantly. “Hungry. Scared, if she's alone out here.”“You’ll see,” Garvey said with a bitter chuckle. “Scared is the last word I'd use for this girl.”





	The Clintasha Fallout4 AU Literally Nobody Asked For

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution to Clintasha Week 2017. I'm just as confused as you are.

“Raiders, really?” Clint asked skeptically. He kicked one of the discarded pipe pistols. “Raiders aren't this smart.” 

 

“I didn't say raiders,” Garvey said with a shake of his head. “I said  _ raider _ . One. And she is this smart. She's been a thorn in our side for months.” 

 

“The family's still alive,” Clint argued. “She rigged half a dozen guns on a tripwire to steal four ears of corn and the kid’s pet mole rat. There aren't even bullet holes in the side of the house, the rounds were blanks.” 

 

“She's a raider,” Garvey replied. The words carried the weight of finality and judgement, and Clint hated what the world had become. 

 

“Scavenger, maybe,” he muttered defiantly. “Hungry. Scared, if she's alone out here.” 

 

“You’ll see,” Garvey said with a bitter chuckle. “Scared is the last word I'd use for this girl.”

 

Clint scowled and moved off to follow the slack tripwire, winding between trees and around the back of the house while Garvey reassured the father and two children. 

 

“We’ll sweep the area,” Garvey promised. “Barton’s the best tracker I've got. We’ll find the raider and put her down.” 

 

Clint's frown deepened, but he picked out the scuffs in the dirt and snapped twigs that indicated the raider’s retreat. This was his job, if he wanted a roof to sleep under and protection from the hellscape of Deathclaws and Supermutants. Hard to believe the raider was working alone, when he'd nearly had his ass handed to him more times than he cared to remember. 

 

“Got a lead?” Garvey called. He stomped up the hill behind the house, rifle over one shoulder and chest puffed out, looking important and official.

 

“Not if you keep making that much noise,” Clint grumbled. “There's your trail, but it's hours old. She's long gone.”

 

“Can you follow her?” 

 

“Well yeah, but-”

 

“Then do it.” 

 

Clint rolled his eyes, but led the way up the hill and down the other side, through a thicket of thorny bushes, across a trickle of water that could hardly be called a stream.

 

“You're wasting my talents, you know,” he said. An old refrain, but maybe this time it would work. “Why don't you give me a suit of power armor and a real assignment?” 

 

“You're on probation. You're lucky you have that gun,” came Garvey’s reply, same as always. 

 

“I'm a decorated war hero,” Clint protested sourly, “and you have me tracking one insignificant raider-”

 

“I don't give a shit about your war,” Garvey interjected. “My war is cleaning up the mess your war caused. If you can't leave the past behind and learn to fight for what's important now, in this world, maybe you don't have a place in my militia.”

 

“Fine, fine,” Clint muttered, scowling. He let the conversation lapse and focused instead on tailing the raider. There wasn't much of interest for the next mile or so, the odd footprint in the dirt, spent bullet casings, empty tin cans with faded labels, the same detritus he'd come to expect from the Commonwealth. 

 

Garvey spotted the Giant Fucking Bear first, slowing him with a tug on his sleeve. Clint froze and raised his rifle in the achingly slow way he'd been taught. The animal didn't charge, only huffed out labored breaths that kicked up little clouds of dust, and after a moment Clint noticed the dark pool of blood soaking the dirt. 

 

Garvey approached and Clint wasn't ashamed to hang back and let him handle the Giant Fucking Bear. He busied himself with working out the details of the fight, tracing the raider’s footprints and the deep gouges the bear’s claws had left in the dirt. Blood, lighter red than the bear’s, and a scrap of torn leather, and two empty Jet containers. 

 

A gunshot reverberated around the stand of spindly trees and Clint judged it safe to investigate the Giant Fucking Bear. 

 

“Still think she's scared?” Garvey asked, and pulled a machete from the bear’s neck. A pair of knives were next, then an improvised shiv. “This wasn't fight or flight, she was trying to bring this thing down on purpose.” 

 

“Got her ass kicked, though,” Clint argued. He pointed to the raider’s trail, the dusty boot imprints uneven and staggering, little splashes of red coloring the dirt. It suddenly didn't seem so far fetched to catch up with the raider. 

 

“Good meat, if you can bring one down,” Garvey shrugged. “Most people aren't crazy enough to bother.” 

 

Clint watched him carve into the bear with the machete, and felt a growing dread in the pit of his stomach. 

 

“No way, let's move if you want your raider.” 

 

“Good meat,” Garvey said again. “You want to eat two hundred year old mac and cheese for dinner?” 

 

“No,” Clint retorted, “but-”

 

“Dog jerky again?” 

 

“ _ No,  _ but-” 

 

“Then stop whining,” Garvey snapped, and held out one of the knives. 

 

“We can't walk around with half a Giant Fucking Bear, we’ll attract every Giant Fucking Lizard in a fifty mile radius.” 

 

“Suit yourself,” Garvey replied. “But I'm not sharing.” 

 

Clint paced, hypervigilant and anxious. He didn't like to stop moving, not unless he had walls and guns between him and the wasteland. He had thought, in the beginning, that allies and a home base would ease the constant fear that clenched in his chest, but nothing seemed to help. The Minutemen all had the same self-righteous bravado that got soldiers killed in the war, and none of them were scared for the right reasons. 

 

This raider, a two day’s hike from their base, was ranked a more serious threat than the installation of Supermutants in the warehouse a mile from the front gates. This was the kind of bullshit mission Clint had always refused to accept, yet here he was, watching Garvey wrap bloody mutant bear meat in a questionably clean tarp. 

 

“Move,” he snarled at last, tone so harsh and commanding Garvey paused to regard him with undivided attention. Clint stomped off after the raider, his task easier now with blood spattering the dirt. 

 

The stolen mole rat was nearby, slashed open with four long gashes too neat to be from bear claws. Two ears of corn lay further down the trail. A sense of foreboding settled over him, but it was a resigned kind of feeling. He couldn't tell the difference between survival instincts and paranoia anymore. 

 

The raider’s trail brought him to the base of a steep incline, and there was a little impression in the leaves around one of the trees. She had sat and bandaged up the injuries from the bear; he kicked at the leaves and found scraps of fabric and an empty syringe. There wasn't any more blood, but he could tell she had scrambled up the embankment. Clint followed. 

 

“Well damn,” he muttered, standing in the middle of the cracked pavement that had once been a highway. This stretch was empty of cars, exposed, the embankment on one side and a big dusty field on the other. He couldn't go any further because there was nothing to follow, no blood or footprints or recently shifted debris. 

 

He poked around the opposite side of the road while he waited for Garvey to catch up, but it was a halfhearted effort. Maybe now they could go back to base. 

 

“You were right,” Clint said when Garvey hauled himself up the hill. People always liked to hear that. “She is smart for a raider. Can't pick up her trail from here.” 

 

“What, she disappeared?” came the retort. Garvey marched past him and headed north. “She went this way. You work one side and I'll work the other, we’ll find where she left the road.” 

 

“How d’you know that?” Clint demanded. He crossed his arms and planted his feet, stubborn, unmoving. Garvey turned back, exasperation written across his features.

 

“Because three miles south is her old base,” Garvey spat. “Shopping center, full of raiders, we cleaned it out six months ago. Our people hold it now, and she knows better than to show her face there again.” 

 

“This is bullshit,” Clint snarled. A hot surge of indignity seized him. He swung the strap of his rifle over his head, stomped forward, and pushed the gun against Garvey’s chest. “Keep your goddamn gun. I'm not chasing this poor girl down so you can finish your stupid vendetta against her raider crew-”

 

“Shut up and run,” Garvey hissed, and pushed the gun back. Clint turned and followed his gaze, fixed on a point behind him, and saw the hulking shadow on the horizon line. 

 

There was cover some two hundred yards ahead, an old bus and a burned out car. They ran, Garvey two strides ahead and shouting at him to keep up. He knew better than to look back. He heaved in big breaths and tried to ignore the burning ache in his legs, the way blood pounded heavy in his ears, the gap in his progress compared to Garvey and how that made him bait. Fear rose cold and sharp in his chest, but he clamped it down, a tenuous hold. 

 

He didn't need a sleeping bag or dog jerky or that extra t-shirt. Supplies wouldn't mean shit if he wasn't alive to use them. He shrugged out of his pack and half turned to let it drop, and the Giant Fucking Lizard was sprinting on all fours, closing, claws gleaming black in the glare of afternoon sun. 

 

He pushed harder. Losing the weight of the pack helped. He drew even with the old car and dropped to one knee, whirling and raising his rifle in a move he'd thought long forgotten. 

 

He squeezed the trigger, aiming for the head. The Deathclaw bellowed and leapt into the air, and he froze instead of rolling to safety behind the car. The monster bowled him over, snarling and howling, and he held the trigger and pressed his eyes shut and hoped he was doing some damage.

 

“Aim, Barton!” 

 

He heard the distinct noise of Garvey’s laser rifle. The Deathclaw roared again and swiped the gun from his hands; one claw raked over his chest and he hissed in pain. Then it was gone, charging at Garvey instead. Clint scrambled for his gun and lined up a shot. 

 

The Deathclaw had Garvey pinned face down, tearing at his backpack. The stupid bear meat, of course. There wasn't time to be scared anymore. 

 

Clint ran, dodging out of sight until he reached the safety of the bus, then turned and fired on the Deathclaw. It abandoned Garvey and came for him instead, and Clint leapt up the steps onto the bus and slammed the door. 

 

“This is bullshit,” he muttered to himself. He pulled two grenades from his belt as the Deathclaw threw itself against the windows. Clint heard the glass cracking. He kept hoping Garvey would give him a little help, but he was still face down, motionless, possibly dead? 

 

Clint threw the grenades through a hole in the roof and rolled under one of the seats. He reached for Laura's wedding ring, hung on a silver chain around his neck, but it wasn't there. Just blood and a torn shirt, and the Deathclaw must have caught the chain when it slashed him--

 

The grenades detonated. His ears were ringing and the bus rolled over the edge of the embankment, he knocked his head on the underside of the seat, then everything went still. 

 

He waited, while the world righted itself. Waited for the Deathclaw to charge down the hill and finish tearing him apart. Nothing happened. He crawled on hands and knees out of the bus, dizzy, unable to stand, and looked to the top of the embankment. 

 

It wasn't a Deathclaw waiting for him. She had to be the raider, even though Garvey had never given him a description. Red hair in curls and a bandanna tying them back, blue plaid shirt tied at one side and a leather jacket with a torn sleeve, bandages peeking through. It was his raider, all right, except she looked closer to the old Nuka Cola adverts than a dirty wasteland raider. 

 

She wore his backpack over one shoulder and Garvey’s laser rifle over the other. One hand held the Deathclaw’s head by the horn. In the other she had Garvey’s stupid militia hat and  _ Laura’s ring.  _

 

He tried to stand again, staggered and fell. He found his gun and aimed sloppily at the raider. 

 

She smirked and tossed the Deathclaw head at him, and he retreated, clumsy and frightened. Then she was gone, waving one bloody hand as she stepped out of his line of sight. 

 

He fell back in the dirt. Garvey had been right, scared was the last word he'd use to describe the raider. 

 

x+x+x+

 

Night found them cold and hungry and uncomfortable. Clint lay on his side in the dirt, cheek resting on a folded arm as he stared into the little campfire. The slash across his chest hurt, a pulsing kind of ache, half-healed with the meager supply of medicine that hadn't been stolen or smashed on the pavement. 

 

Garvey wasn't dead. His bag had taken most of the damage, supplies destroyed and useless, and he had a bad cut to the leg, but he wasn't dead. They couldn't signal for help. The radio they'd been using to communicate with the rest of the militia was among the Deathclaw casualties.

 

Garvey had offered to take first watch, unwilling to give up fiddling with the broken radio. Help was three miles away in the shopping center but Clint was too chickenshit to go find it in the dark alone. Sleep wouldn't come. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the severed Deathclaw head staring back at him, or the raider standing at the top of the embankment with Laura’s ring. 

 

Shame burned through him. He should be hunting the raider down and taking his stuff back, getting help for his partner, anything besides dreading the hours he would be responsible for their safety. 

 

He simply didn't fit in this world. War was familiar, tactics and leadership and the hot surge of adrenaline. He knew how to be a soldier. He was a damn good one, had the medals to prove it, not that anyone cared anymore. He wasn't made for combat against Giant Fucking Lizards. 

 

A branch snapped somewhere to their right. Garvey’s hands stilled on the busted radio and Clint held his breath, listening hard. Thirty seconds, a minute. Garvey gave him the hand signal for  _ hold position  _ and grabbed the rifle. 

 

Clint watched him limp out of the circle of firelight and longed to reach for the pistol holstered at his hip. He lay still and quiet instead, and almost missed the raider’s near-silent approach. 

 

A moment later and she would have killed him, but he sensed her presences behind him just before she brought her knife down. This was familiar. This was where he fit.

 

She swung the knife down toward his throat. He grabbed her arm and flipped her straight into the fire. He caught a brief flash of the shock and indignity written across her features, then he was on his feet, scooping up her knife and charging through the remains of the fire while she scrambled away and tried to run. 

 

He caught her by the back of the shirt; she whirled and punched him in the face. They traded blows, blocking and punching, until Clint charged forward, grabbed her around the waist, and slammed her into the dirt. He straddled her and pushed the knife against her throat, one hand clamped over her mouth to stop her screaming for help. 

 

“How many men do you have,” he demanded, a low whisper. He didn't want Garvey to come back, not yet. Her eyes were wide and wild as she shook her head and mumbled against his hand. 

 

“What else is out there?” 

 

She shook her head again. He slid his hand away, but was careful to keep the knife against her throat.

 

“Just me,” she whispered. 

 

“You still have my shit?” 

 

“At my camp. I can take you there, just-”

 

“Damn straight,” he growled, and rolled off her. She lay still for a moment, sharp gasping breaths easing back into controlled silence. He hesitated, then held out a hand to help her up. 

 

“I've never been caught before,” she admitted, the words laced with disgust, as he pulled her to her feet. He believed it. Silent seemed to be her natural state. She hadn't even yelled when he threw her in the fire. 

 

“Course not, if you let Deathclaws do your dirty work,” Clint retorted. She scowled at him and beat the soot and dirt from her clothes. She felt the end of her ponytail and found the curls singed, the only real damage Clint could see his little trick with the fire had caused. She threw him an expression so full of venom he had to force down the impulse to take a step back.

 

“You want your shit or not?” she snarled. 

 

She started walking, obviously expecting him to follow. He scrawled a quick note in the dirt for Garvey,  _ be back soon _ , then hurried after her. She doubled back, crossed the road, and slid down the embankment beside the bus he'd blown up. She didn't dislodge a single rock or stick, and she  seemed to known exactly where to step, which trees made good holds to slow her progression. She waited at the bottom while he clambered down after her. 

 

“Look, it's your girlfriend,” she quipped as they passed the bus. She gave the Deathclaw head a kick that sent it rolling unevenly toward him. He swore and jumped out of the way, and felt the familiar swell of shame in his gut. She paused to study him, head cocked to one side and brows drawn. “Why are you scared? You're a badass.” 

 

“Why  _ aren't  _ you?” he shot back. 

 

She regarded him coolly for a moment, then gave him a sly little grin. 

 

“I know who you are,” she said, then turned and led him deeper into the trees. 

 

Clint sensed a trap, and this time he knew it wasn't run-of-the-mill paranoia.  _ I know who you are _ , but it wasn't really a secret, he hadn't bothered to lie about being in cryo for two hundred years. Gossip still traveled with supply caravans, although it was slower than in pre-war days. It wasn't that she knew, it was how soon she'd figured him out. 

 

Whatever she was, this girl wasn't a raider. She knew about his history when he'd only just learned of her existence today. He watched her wind between the trees, flitting in and out of shadows, disappearing for moments at a time. None of the militia troops could blend so seamlessly, and he certainly couldn't.

 

“I could teach you,” she called, and Clint startled as he realized he'd been blatantly staring. “If you don't kill me,” she added. 

 

“I'm not going to kill you,” he whispered harshly, drawing even. “I just want my shit back.” 

 

“Why are we whispering?” 

 

“Because I don't want to be eaten?” 

 

“There's nothing out here that wants to eat us,” she said easily. The ground began to slope downward, he could hear water running somewhere below them. “Well, nothing that wants to eat  _ me _ ,” she amended. 

 

A pair of eyes flashed at him from the underbrush, reflecting yellow in the moonlight. A low growl echoed through the trees, and another, and leaves rustled and more pairs of eyes winked at him, six, seven. He turned and the raider was gone, vanished into the shadows. 

 

He pulled his gun and fired at the nearest set of eyes, took two staggering steps back, but hesitated to run, lest the animals charge. He fired again. Glass shattered and the other creatures faded, one by one. The growling went silent with an abrupt whine. 

 

“Oh, fuck you,” the raider shouted. She stomped out of the trees and marched up to him, a piece of mangled metal in her hands. “Congratulations, you shot a lantern.” 

 

Just a trick, a trap. His mind hummed blank for a moment, as he tried to process the sudden lack of danger and the raider scowling up at him. He was tired, tired of being scared and tired of not knowing, weary of how quickly adrenaline spiked at the slightest noise in the dark.

 

“The fuck’s your problem?” he demanded. The familiar shiver of fear told him to lower his voice, but his temper won out. He threw the lantern to the ground and gave the raider a shove that sent her stumbling back against a tree. 

 

He wasn't sure if he wanted to fight or just make her feel some of the fear and uncertainty that had followed him since waking up, but she didn't give him a chance to decide. 

 

She dodged away and did a flip, too quick for him to counter, then she was on his shoulders, choking him, and he slammed into the ground with an impact that forced the breath from his lungs. 

 

“Touch me again,” the raider challenged, pressing one booted foot against his chest. He shook his head and held up his hands in surrender. 

 

“S-sorry,” he muttered, and she scoffed. 

 

“Two hundred years hasn't helped your personality.” 

 

“Oh, shut up,” he groaned, and rolled up on his hands and knees. 

 

“Keep up, and stay off the trail,” she spat. She left him to follow again, but this time she didn't bother darting around the shadows or shooting him mysterious grins. She walked a linear path, down into the ravine and parallel to a perfectly good trail of packed dirt. There was a hard set to her shoulders and she didn't make any more jokes. 

 

Clint truly did feel sorry for turning on her, although he suspected she wouldn't care to hear an apology. 

 

“Got a name?” he tried. 

 

“Red,” she said shortly. 

 

“That's a raider name,” he pressed. She shrugged one shoulder but didn't turn. “You're not a raider.” 

 

She whirled to face him, brow drawn in confusion. He gave her a triumphant little smirk. He was going on conjecture, but looked like he was right. 

 

“Nat,” she said at last. 

 

“I'm-”

 

“Clint,” she interrupted. “I know who you are. Don't shoot the next one, please. He's real.” 

 

A pair of yellow eyes flashed at them from the trail ahead. 

 

“Like a pet?” he asked hopefully. Nat whistled and the thing ran toward them, and Clint felt a rush of familiarity that made him want to cry, if he wasn't a soldier and trying to save face with the raider. 

 

“You've got a dog!” He dropped to his knees without thinking, half laughing as Nat arched a brow. “Like, a real honest to God dog!” 

 

He held out a hand, aching for the dog to come over so he could run his fingers through it's fur. It regarded him with a haughty expression from Nat’s side, ears pricked forward and tail hanging still. 

 

“This is Dogmeat,” Nat said, bemusement behind her tone, but he didn't care. Something inside him unclenched, a little of the ever-present fear falling away. There was a single thing in this world unchanged, besides him. 

 

“Dogmeat?” Clint repeated distastefully.

 

“Better than getting attached,” Nat said with a shrug. She passed him a bit of dried meat from her pocket, and the dog came closer and ate from his hand, tail sweeping the dirt. “You could always eat him, too,” Nat stage whispered at the dog. 

 

Dogmeat barked at her and licked his fingers some more, then drew in close enough to touch, snuffling around his pockets for more food. Clint scratched him behind the ears and got a lick to the face as a thank you. 

 

“Let's go, if you want your shit,” Nat said. She led him deeper into the ravine until they reached a dead end, a little stream running beside a cave entrance. She ducked low and stepped inside, and Clint followed. 

 

The ceiling was higher than he anticipated, stalactites far above them. The way forward was impeded by a fortified wall of wood and metal that stretched all the way to the ceiling.

 

“Jump the pressure plates,” Nat ordered. He didn't ask what the pressure plates triggered, couldn't even see them, but he was careful to step precisely where she did. Dogmeat trotted easily to the wall and sat by a door, tail wagging. 

 

Nat pressed her finger to a little black box mounted beside the door. 

 

“Thumbprint scanner,” she said, when she caught him staring. 

 

“You rigged all this yourself?” he asked, and okay, he was a little impressed. 

 

“Wasn't hard,” she retorted. She didn't invite him inside. She leaned through the door and dragged his pack out, throwing it at his feet. “I'm keeping the hat and laser rifle.” 

 

“Yeah, fine,” Clint agreed. He tore things out of the bag, taking a quick mental inventory. Everything was there, most importantly the faded, worn family picture he kept zipped in an inside pocket. That was fine, but the ring was still missing, no matter how much he dug and rearranged things. 

 

“There's something missing,” Clint snapped. So far he had avoided mentioning the ring, lest she realize its importance and withhold it from him, but he was done playing games. “The ring and silver necklace, you took it with Garvey’s hat, it wasn't in my bag.” 

 

“Sold it,” she said easily, but it was a lie. Clint got to his feet and took a step forward, then recalled how neatly Nat had kicked his ass. He bent to retrieve the photograph from his bag instead. 

 

“Look, I had a family. You know who I am, so you know this already, right? They killed Laura, and that's her ring I wear on the chain. It's special, something of hers I can hold on to. You've got something like that, everyone here's lost someone.” 

 

Nat pressed her lips into a thin line, not quite a frown or a scowl. 

 

“You lost more than just your wife,” she said at last. He wanted answers, she knew too much, but he wanted Laura’s ring first. He waited quietly, and after a moment Nat sighed. “Fine, it's in here.” 

 

She led him through the door and flipped a switch. Lights blazed on, and Clint stared in amazement at the arsenal mounted to the walls. Rifles and mini guns and mines and even a nuke launcher. Crates of ammo stacked in one corner. A footlocker full of Chems. 

 

Nat didn't give any of the guns a second glance, moving instead to a lopsided bookcase in the back. She opened an old cigar box and separated his silver chain from the other shiny things inside. 

 

“Six months ago Preston Garvey and his militia cleared out what they thought was a raider compound,” she said, and dropped to ring and chain into his open palm. “They didn't just kill raiders. They didn't do any reconnaissance. There were people like me there, too. People they'd taken or kidnapped and trained to do the dangerous missions.” 

 

“Bet they wouldn't listen, either,” Clint added. He felt responsible, even though he hadn't been a part of the militia then, or even seen the base they'd cleared out. 

 

“‘ _ Shoot her on sight,’  _ was the exact order. I don't care about anyone he killed. The raiders were cruel, and they were pawns. They killed my parents years ago and took me as a prize, but I kept something with me and hid it in the base. It's still there, and I haven't been able to find a way in to retrieve it.” 

 

“Like a ring on a chain?” Clint asked. 

 

“It's my father's journal,” Nat said, then paused, as if choosing her next words carefully. “I was hoping, if I played nice, you might go in and retrieve it for me. Garvey trusts you”. 

 

“I'll help,” Clint agreed, then immediately wished he'd kept his mouth shut. He was betraying the militia, not that he'd ever believed very much in their mission or the way they chose to carry it out. Nat was definitely setting him up. But...she wasn't a raider, that much was clear. And the dog trusted her. “Tell me where to find the journal.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
